


closer

by cellard00rs



Series: Divide Series [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Porn, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shadow!Ford, Sibling Incest, Tentacle Sex, mentions of former prostitution, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: The veil between dimensions is lowered and Ford is going to spend an evening in his monster form. Stan decides to investigate.





	closer

**THEN**

 

“Come on, hit back!” Stan orders as he throws another light punch at Ford. His brother blocks, boxer’s gloves held up high as he frowns, “Tell me again why I agreed to this?”

Stan lowers his own gloved hands and huffs, “Well, you _said_ you wanted to help me get ready for my next bout.”

“And I do,” Ford argues, “But I thought I’d…I don’t know, hold your punching bag or get you water. I didn’t think I’d have to get in the ring with you.”

“Helping me out in the ring is what I really need,” Stan returns casually and he takes another swing that Ford easily deflects, “More so than you holding a bag or getting me water, being my cheerleader – not that you wouldn’t look cute in a skirt.”

Ford flushes, “I don’t think ‘cheerleader’ was one of the options I listed.”

“True, but it came to mind. ‘Specially the skirt,” Stan chuckles, grin cheeky, and Ford rolls his eyes, “Your skirt-related fantasies aside, isn’t there, ah…some other way I can help?”

Stan tosses out a few more jabs in answer and again Ford dodges them or shoves them away. Stan stops, “Look, I don’t get what the big deal is. You’ve been in the ring with me before.”

“Yes and I didn’t like it then either,” Ford pouts, doing his best to push up his glasses despite the thick gloves, “Our father tossed us into these classes when we were kids. If you recall, you didn’t care for them much either. Not until later when you, ah, developed.”

Stan’s eyebrows rise, “Is that a compliment or are ya flirting with me?”

Ford’s color worsens, “Um, I don’t…? Both?”

This gets a chuckle and Ford’s smile is shaky. His and Stan’s secret relationship has been going strong for a while now, but it’s still a strange thing – flirting with his twin.  Not that anything about the situation in general _isn’t_ strange. Lord knows New York was strange, but Ford can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Thinking of when he and Stan…when they…

Ford’s distraction leads to Stan accidently clipping his chin. Ford curses and clutches at his face while Stan hisses, “Aw, geez, Sixer! What’d ya let your guard down for? I didn’t mean ta-!”

“It’s okay,” Ford says, but it comes out in a pained slur, making the words ring hollow. Stan smacks his gloves together and grunts, “Well, mean, that wouldn’t’ve even happened if you’d just hit me back! That’s what I _really_ need you to do! That’d help me out the most – if you really played the part of being the opponent instead of dodging everything.”

“What? Be aggressive?” Ford snorts, “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Aw, come on! You can get a little,” Stan steps closer into Ford’s personal space, eyebrows waggling, “physical with me.”

“You’re sucha dork,” Ford mutters even as his heart skips a little. He knows Stan’s being more goofy than sexy, but it doesn’t matter. Stan’s so close and he’s so good looking and Ford’s so confused. He’s been confused for such a long time now. It’s exhausting and frustrating and it sets his teeth on edge. Frankly, thinking about it does make him feel a little aggressive, but not in any sort of way where he wants to take it out on Stanley. Well, at least not in a violent sense. With this in mind, he sighs, “Look, I don’t…I don’t want to hit you.”

“You’ve hit me before.”

“Yeah, but not since…” Ford trails off, hoping he won’t have to say it, hoping Stan will pick up on the unspoken words. He does. He does and now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, “You tellin’ me you don’t want to hit me since we started knockin’ boots?”

“Shhh!” Ford spits, looking around warily and Stan chuckles; “Ain’t nobody here but us, Sixer. No need to get all worked up.”

“You never know who could be listening,” Ford returns, “Besides, our…involvement isn’t something to be taken lightly.”

Stan just hums, mumbling ‘fair enough’ beneath his breath and Ford gets the impression he might have hurt his feelings. How, Ford has no idea. It’s not as if either of them has ever…ever said anything different. Anything life changing or big. Anything that’s a four letter word and Ford does his best to never, ever, EVER to think of that word. To never think of love and Stan together, because if he does, he feels a lot more than simple aggression.

He feels fear, shame, doubt – all those, but never aggression. And to be honest, he doesn’t want to feel those things either. They’re so the opposite of what he should feel if he’s in love with…

…but he’s not. Ford’s not – not that _word_ with Stan and Stan’s not with Ford. No, that four lettered emotion is far from them and far from this and shouldn’t be mentioned, shouldn’t be thought of. Suddenly Ford feels weary and he rubs at his eyes with the back of one wrist. The sudden onslaught of  what his mother would no doubt call ‘negative energy’ makes him want nothing more than to turn to his brother, which he does, voice soft, “Stanley?”

His twin looks at him and he must see the sorrow on his face, because he comes closer, “Whoa…hey, you alright?”

Ford shakes his head and Stan tugs off his gloves. He uses his teeth to tear at the ties and once he gets his hands free, he cups Ford’s face, tugs him near enough that their foreheads touch, “What’s-?”

Ford just closes his eyes and shakes his head before tilting his face up and kissing Stan. Stan draws in a breath, surprised. Ford’s not normally the one to make the first move. And wasn’t he just saying something about how anybody could be listening? Ah, but then maybe those people are blind, because Ford’s kissing him like nobody’s around.

Which is fine with Stanley, who eagerly kisses back. Ford’s gloved hands knock at his shoulders and Stan wants to rip the gloves off. No, he wants more than that. He wants to rip Ford’s _boxers_ off. He wants Ford completely bare, he wants himself bare. He wants them both naked and writing. He wants to lower Ford to the mat and take him and…

Oh god…what if _Ford_ wants to do that to _him_? What if Ford wants to-? Stan shudders at the very idea. In New York, Ford had been more than eager to be beneath Stan, to take him inside his body. But what would it be like the other way around? What would it be like for _Stanley_ to be beneath _Ford_? Stan shudders at the very idea, suddenly wanting it with such passionate desperation it makes him dizzy.

But just as quickly as Ford’s initiative begins, it ends. He looks at Stan with shy eyes, as if he never would even think to kiss his brother so boldly, so hungrily. Stan curses under his breath, lips twitching, “So, you don’t want to hit me with your fist, but your mouth’s fair game?”

“I don’t know…did it or did it not almost knock you out?” The question escapes Ford and Stan has to stop, blink, stunned that Ford has said something so…slick. Then he bursts into laughter, delighted. Ford finds himself joining in and the two brother’s laughter echoes throughout the empty gym.

 

**NOW**

Stanley Pines can’t complain about his sex life.

I mean, honestly – how many people his age even _have_ a sex life? Much less one that’s so active. He goes to bed with his brother, his lover, his secret husband, every night and if they don’t pass out, they’re in one another’s arms doing something. Kissing, cuddling, making love, fucking…if both feel up to it, there’s some sort of activity and most people who are classified as senior citizens aren’t lucky enough to say that, no they are not.

But…okay…here’s the thing…

Stan can’t complain about his sex life but he can, well, maybe want something, ah, _more_. And by more, he means it in the full, capital letters sense of the word. MORE. He wants Ford to give him more, to show more, to be…aggressive. Aggressive towards Stan because the truth of the matter is, he never is.

And Stan gets it. He really does. Ford’s sensitive about the time Stan spent in the world’s oldest profession. True, Stan gave up hookin’ decades ago. He got the Shack, he got a home, he got a place where he was dry and warm and could find something to eat every day, so he didn’t have to do that anymore, but it doesn’t matter to Ford.

To Ford, it might as well have been yesterday, because now he knows that there was a period of time – no matter how brief – where Stan had to sell his body for such things. That he had to give himself up sexually to faceless, nameless people for a little cash and that tears Ford up inside. Never mind that Stan doesn’t care about such things. He _doesn’t_. _He_ made the decision. _He_ chose to do what he had to do to survive and he’ll be damned if he has anyone, even Ford, look down on him for it.

And yes, maybe Ford doesn’t look _down_ on him per say, or pity him, or whatever the fuck, but he feels something about it and Stan wishes he wouldn’t, because it’s the past and its whatever, but there it is. And because of it, when they finally, _finally_ do reverse positions, when Ford finally does take Stanley, he’s super gentle about it. Slow, methodical. And it’s good. It _is_. It’s hot and sweet and Stan’s never found being a bottom so pleasurable and he _does_ appreciate it, he does.

He appreciates it every time, but those times are ultra-rare. For the most part Ford doesn’t seem eager to go about things that way, happy to be the bottom and to let Stan top and Stan just, he wants MORE. He wants Ford to _wreck_ him. He wants Ford to take him with savage intensity, for Ford to WANT him and he knows; he _knows_ Ford wants him, of course he does - but he’s talking about a _different_ kind of want.

The kind of want that’s sort of vicious. The kind that walks the razor’s edge of ugly and beautiful. The kind of want that’s animalistic and powerful. Hungry. The kind that’ll rock him to his very core and he wants to ask Ford for it, but knows he can’t.

If he asks, Ford will revert back to the kid he was in their youth. The ruddy faced, stuttering sweetheart that Stan fell for in the first place, but the one who is also completely incapable of even thinking of such things.

So, Stan can’t complain about his sex life, but he can wish for more and he’s pretty damn sure he’ll never get it. But that’s neither here nor there, right? Overall, he’s got it pretty good and he’s thinking that doubly so as he counts down the latest haul. He’s whistling along to some dreaded pop song on the radio as he leafs through each dollar bill when he hears a loud throat clearing and looks up to see Ford watching him.

He’s wearing his normal get up – trench coat, red sweater, dirty pants and boots and Stan’s tried to get him to dress up in something more befitting his new station in life as the runner of Mr.F’s Fantastical Facts Booth but Ford refuses to do it. Probably because it’d be fun and cool and those two words have never been in the dork’s vocabulary. Stan smirks, thinking about saying as such when he notices that Ford’s…fidgety.

Fidgety and weird looking and Stan’s eyebrows rise, “What’s up, Sixer? You look like you’ve gotta gas or somethin’.”

His twin makes a face at that, but merely clears his throat again before saying, “Um, listen, Stanley, there’s…there’s something I must tell you.”

Stan bookmarks the amount of money he’s counted thus far in his brain as puts down the bills and regards his brother. He waits. And waits. But Ford says nothing and, if anything, he just proceeds to look more fidgety. Finally Stan snaps, “Well? Out with it, Poindexter, I ain’t gettin’ any younger over here!”

Ford startles some, as if snapped out of a thought, and he colors before continuing, “Ah! Yes! Right well, I, I…um…y-you see, I’m afraid I shall, ah, have to spend this evening in the basement.”

“The basement?” Stan questions, totally lost because neither of them has touched the basement in over a year. The old home of the portal, the labs, all of it – has been sealed. Shut off and forgotten, mainly as a point of comfort. There’s bad history down there, bad blood, and without discussing it, both Stan and Ford shunned the place. In many ways, the basement is a representation of all the awful things that happened in the past and both seemed eager to move on from it. So, to go down there now…

Stan gets Ford’s discomfort a little more as he scowls, “Why do you gotta go down to the basement? And what do you mean this evening? You staying the whole night down there?”

“Uh, well…yes,” Ford mumbles uncomfortably, avoiding Stan’s eyes as he rubs at the back of his neck, “If I thought there was another way, I assure you, I would take it. I’ve spent the last several weeks trying to think of an alternative, but there doesn’t seem to be any other way.”

“An alternative for what?” Stan’s gaze becomes more hawk-like and Ford shrinks from it, “Stanley, I know we’ve never spoken much about supernatural phenomena. I know it’s a sore spot for you, but you see tonight is…special.”

Stan continues to glare until Ford’s prompted to continue, “Tonight is…the veil between all dimensions…it’s-it’s thinner on this night, do you understand? If…if the portal were still operational, tonight would be an excellent night to use it.”

“The portal’s gone,” Stan snaps; voice harsh, because if there’s one thing he actually _is_ sore about, it’s that goddamn portal. Ford finally looks at him, eyes narrowed, “I _know_ that! I’m not talking about rebuilding the portal; I’m merely using it as an example to illustrate what is taking place! Our dimension, ALL dimensions, are more vulnerable to one another tonight and, as such, some…some things can be drawn more easily to the surface.”

The anger Stan felt starts to seep out, replaced with confusion, “Huh?”

“Some… _thing_ ,” Ford stresses and at Stan’s blank look he ruffles his grey hair, grunting, “A-A thing like _me_ , Stanley.”

“You?” Stan’s still lost, but then Ford shoots him a look and he knows. He remembers and he sucks in a breath, “Yer talking about what you can…can turn into.”

Ford looks so deeply ashamed that Stan actually gets up from where he’s sitting. He actually forgets where he left off in counting his money for Christ’s sake, because Ford’s face is so damned tragic it _hurts_ , “Hey, whoa – look, you’re not a monster.”

Ford lets out a humorless laugh, “Normally you’re a much better liar, Stanley. I AM a monster. I’m aware of that. I’ve been one for a long time and while I’ve done my best to bury it within me – to bury it beneath intelligence and civility, it’s still there. I’m a monster, a _thing_ , and tonight I’ll…I won’t be able to control it.”

Stan reaches out to touch his brother’s shoulder, but Ford shrugs him off and Stan feels as if he’s been struck. He breathes in deep; voice more resolved when he speaks next, “That’s bullshit, Ford. You ain’t a monster. And you sure as hell ain’t a _thing_. I had those sons of bitches inside me, remember? Had them torture me and do all kinds of shit to me and I KNOW the difference between you and them and you ain’t them, you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I might not be them exactly, but they gave birth to what I am and what I did to myself. The…alterations I made. And those alterations…they, well…there are side effects…”

“I remember,” Stan mutters, recalling how Ford looked and acted under the influence of his inner demon. How he broke a record player, tore down lights, attacked Stan and then, in the other dimension - the claws, the teeth, the shadowy tendrils…

But Ford’s sorrow changes to something else, something more akin to embarrassment as he mumbles, “Not-not just those. Not the rage and blind violence. There are, ah, _other_ side effects. One in particular that ties directly into some biological components I grafted onto myself.”

“Okay, well, now you’ve lost me…”

Ford shifts his weight from foot to foot, folding his arms and normally, normally he loves to take on the teacher role, but right now he seems so uncomfortable about it. In any other situation Stan would eat this up, but right now he finds it very disconcerting. His brother not wanting to show off his smart-alecky smarts? That’s a warning flag right there. Whatever must be happening tonight must be even bigger than Ford just trashing some stuff and attacking him.

“Look, Sixer, even if the veil is looser or whatever, you can’t _actually_ change, right? That’s what you told me. The environmental conditioners or something aren’t right for-”

“ _Dimensional conditions_ actually,” Ford corrects, a brief smile flittering over his face at Stan’s obvious mistake, “And yes, normally they are such that I can’t physically change into my monstrous form but, as I said, the weakening of the veils actually _does_ make it possible for me to change, even here in this dimension, but that’s not…the physical change, while a factor, is not my greatest concern and not why I feel the need to quarantine myself in the basement for the evening.”

“Quarantine?” Stan asks and Ford waves off the question like it’s a troublesome fly, “Yes, yes, quarantine. I have a cell down there I built years ago for research purposes. I plan to sequester myself in it this evening when the…when the change takes place because it will take place and when it does I’ll be…”

Ford trails off and looks wholly awkward as he mutters, “…untrustworthy.”

“Untrustworthy? Whoa, whoa, whoa – back up,” Stan makes the time out motion with his hands, “Okay, so, you’re telling me you’re gonna change into your other form tonight because of this dimensional flux and the change won’t be violent in nature, but it won’t be trustworthy and then that’s got something to do with biology or-?”

“I’ll-I’ll be in something of an estrous cycle.”

“A what now?”

“Heat,” Ford squeaks, “In…in heat.”

Stan’s eyes widen, “Wait, ‘in heat’ as in-?”

“Yes,” Ford clips and he’s avoiding Stan’s eyes again and Stan rocks back on his heels, “Soooo…you’ll want to get pregnant?”

“What?” Ford gasps and Stan’s trying, really trying, not to have fun with this, because it’s obvious this is serious but, well, “Thought that’s what ‘in heat’ was. Female animals wantin’ to get knocked up.”

“No,” Ford stresses, a vein pulsing in his forehead, “I won’t want to _get_ pregnant. It is physically impossible for me to even-!” he lets out an aggravated noise, “No! It’s-it’s more like I’ll want to-want to, ah… _impregnate_ someone…”

Stan blinks rapidly a couple times as he absorbs this. Ford, thinking that he might’ve finally shocked Stan into silence and wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, rushes on, “So, as you can clearly understand, I must spend this evening in the basement. I’ll lock myself in the cell and, by morning, the event shall have passed and I’ll be back to nor-”

“You been in heat before?” Stan interrupts and Ford falters. Again, his look of discomfort returns and again, while Stan knows he should take this more seriously, he can’t help but be secretly amused as Ford admits, “Yes.”

“Didja bump uglies with other dimensional creatures then?”

“What?! NO!” Ford says this in the high pitched, scandalized tone of an old matron and Stan can no longer hold back his smile, “Why not?”

“What do you MEAN why NOT?” Ford damn near roars and Stan is practically choking as he tries not to laugh, “I TOLD you! I’ve never had sexually relations with anyone BUT you! I thought this pleased you!”

“It ain’t that I’m not pleased, Sixer,” Stan quickly reassures him, “Trust me – I love that I’m the only one who’s ever had a piece of ya, but I just figured, ya know – if you’d been lost to lust before, maybe you made it with some otherworldly creatures. I mean, it seems like that’d be right up yer alley, you know? Like, you’d _want_ to be a monster fucker, maybe keep a journal on just that. Make records of your sexually exploits with the Moth Man or…”

“I am NOT a-a-!” If possible, Ford’s tone grows more appalled, “I _study_ these creatures, Stanley! They are of _scientific_ interest! I would never defile them nor myself by engaging in-in-!”

“Calm down, calm down,” Stan tries, but he’s not having much success, especially considering he’s finally lost in his struggle not to laugh and Ford shakes his head in disgust, “It’s akin to asking a pisciculturist if he has sex with his fish!”

“What about piss?” Stan tries but Ford is still ranting, “I’m a _scientist_! Not – not some sexual deviant! These creatures, so many of them, they don’t _understand_ the implications of-! I would never-! Consent-!”

Ford’s breaks off into aborted cries of outrage as Stan’s waves his hands, laughing so hard now his sides ache. When he finally catches his breath he manages, “No, look – I get it. Consent is important and I know you’d never do a thing without it, but I guess, mean, if you’ve, y’know, been in heat before, I just figured maybe you’d’ve found someone or something to take care of it.”

“It’s not that simple,” Ford sniffs primly, “While I have succumbed to the effects of this uh, sexual drive before, they were not abated. At least not in the manner of copulation with a partner. They couldn’t be, because the species in which I picked up this unfortunate side effect requires a certain factor to be met.”

“And that is?”

Stan’s pretty sure Ford’s whole body flushes as he husks, “The proper partner.”

“The-?”

“A mate,” Ford rushes it all out in one breath, “Or what I would recognize as a…”

“So, what’re you sayin’? _I’m_ your mate?” Stan says it as a joke but when he sees Ford’s expression, his eyes widen and the realization settles in, “Holy shit…”

Ford nods, finding Stan’s reaction to this proper, “Yes, so now you understand. Since you and I have reconnected and consider ourselves married, it would be inadvisable for me to be free and in a position to-”

“Whoa! Wait! Does this mean you want to impregnate me?”

Ford starts sputtering like mad and Stan can’t help but laugh again. Ford looks like he’s about to blow his top as he hisses, “I’ve TOLD you it’s impossible for-! At least, in _this_ dimension, men cannot conceive and carry a child to term! Even _with_ the veil between the dimensions lowered!”

This last bit is tossed in just as Stan opens his mouth to ask that very question.  Ford looks almost exhausted as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Look, I believe we’ve taken this to its conclusion _, thank god_. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go ahead and finish my preparations for this evening. I shall see you tomorrow and Stanley?”

Ford makes sure to meet Stan’s eyes, his voice firm, “Do not, I repeat, do NOT go down into the basement this evening.”

“Sure, sure,” Stan mumbles blithely, like he could care less, “I gotcha. ‘S not like I want you tryin’ ta hump my leg like a dog.”

“I wouldn’t-!” Ford just breaks off with an irritated growl and turns, long coat swishing behind him as if to punctuate his annoyance. It’s not until he’s gone that Stan really starts thinking about going down into the basement and, honestly, he thinks he deserves a pat on the back for that.

After all, the moment Ford said the words ‘in heat’, Stan was pretty much on board. More so with the whole mate thing, because there’s something oddly primal and carnal about that, that Stan finds, much to his surprise, appeals to him. But he doesn’t want to put himself or his brother in a bad situation either. After all, every time Stan’s been around Ford when he’s been under the persuasion of his inner demon, it’s led to violence.

Stan certainly doesn’t want anything unpleasant between them. As he told Ford, he knows his brother would never go too far, would never do anything without proper permission. But what of his other half? Would it recognize a ‘no’? Would it stop if Stan asked it to? Stan turns this over in his mind again and again as the day wears on, as it gives itself over to night. After they eat dinner, Ford excuses himself, all normal and Stanford Pines-like, and there’s no question he’s himself.

But as the hours tick and tick by and it gets later and later into the night, as Stan spends his time alone upstairs in their bedroom, he finds himself wondering: What is Ford like down there? What is he like in the basement? All locked up and…well…horny? Stan tries to distract himself from it. He really does. He flips through some old magazines, he takes a shower, he watches some television, but nothing he does can seem to take his thoughts away from his brother. His brother, his husband, his other half and that half’s half and fuck, it’s just…

…the curiosity is killing him.

As are the continual waves of rising arousal that have been sweeping through him ever since Ford’s revelation. In heat. Mating. His brother, in that monster form, a panting being of lust. A lust that’s never been abated through actual sex, because he (it?) needed the right partner. The right mate. The one Ford would recognize on some sort of primitive, molecular level and what if Stan goes down there and Ford doesn’t want him?

That thought stings.

God, what if _that’s_ why Ford didn’t want him to come downstairs.

 _No_ , Stan’s thoughts argue, _Ford’s not like that. You know that. He loves you. You love him. You worked out all that shit a long time ago. If he says you’re the one, you’re the one. Or does that ring on your finger not prove it? He just doesn’t want to hurt you_.

 _Hurt me_? Another voice in his mind returns, _How? What’s he gonna do? Fuck me to death? Is that even possible_?

And there’s another factor. Ford is in a completely different form. Maybe being intimate with someone would hurt the other person. Again, Ford would never want to hurt Stanley willingly. And certainly not during a sexual encounter.

Stan thinks about all this even as he finds himself rising from where he’s sitting. Even as he finds himself going downstairs, even as he finds himself in front of the vending machine pushing buttons and the next thing he knows, he’s on the elevator going down to the basement. And, okay, he can easily explain this away as simply wanting to satisfy his curiosity. He has so many questions in his mind, his brain is stuffed with them and this is the only way to get any answers.

Besides, Ford said he’d be in a cell. He’s locked up, right? He can’t hurt Stan, so logically; it can’t hurt Stan to just look. To check in. Take a peek. To just see that he’s okay. Besides, he didn’t promise Ford he wouldn’t go down into the basement. Ford just told him not to. In this firm, patronizing Dad tone and yes, let’s NOT think about Pops right now.

The elevator seems to ding louder than usual as its door slides open and Stan walks out carefully. He’s wearing his usual evening attire – white tank top, fez, shorts, slippers. He can hear those very slippers scrape along the ground as he walks forward and looks around. It’s been a long time since he’s been down here.

Most of the scientific equipment is gone. Some of it Ford sold off, some of it he keeps upstairs. The portal room is empty. Just old tubes and wires, yet somehow still foreboding. Stan walks back towards the laboratory rooms, the ones he can count on one hand having been in and it’s here he discovers the glass cell. It’s very large, very spacious, and very, very dark inside.

When he enters some motion sensors must kick on, because light finally appears from above, florescent bulbs illuminating the room, but only just. The cell is still pitch black on the opposite side of the glass. The glass that is so clear it would almost be impossible to see, save for the perfectly drilled air holes and the honking HUGE dial affixed to the near seamless door in the glass cell’s center.

The dial is a blazing, warning yellow color with big red digital numbers that are lazily scrolling down. Stan approaches the dial and works out that it’s a countdown. The door won’t open until it reaches zero. He looks up at the glass and can see his reflection, but no Ford.

Where is he?

Stan feels a bit like a spectator at an aquarium. _Best not to tap the glass_ , he thinks, even as he gently raps his knuckles against it. There’s a resounding ring, but no answer, no movement. It’s just like that dinosaur film – where’s the T-Rex, huh? Where’s the excitement? Stan sighs and just as he’s wondering whether or not he should call out to Ford, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He can’t say why, exactly. He still doesn’t even _see_ anything.

But there’s this sort of electric feel to the air. A ripple of…something. Then he notices a shift in the darkness. Something in the far right corner of the cell…the shadows there…they’re _moving_. They…slither. Some of the shadow itself seems to slink along the floor, reaching out and breaking into forks along the ground and Stan swallows, damn near pressing his face to the glass for a better look. It’s like being at a zoo, peering in through the bars of the cages to try and catch a glimpse of wild, untamed creatures. Lions and tigers and bears and oh my, the forks of shadows are moving closer…

They grow bigger, swirling and swishing, rising up into the air and Stan recognizing that they’re…tendrils. Shadowy tendrils that curl and beckon and move independently of one another. It’s like seeing an octopus or a squid, but lighter, more airy.

Shady dark whirls of smoke rising and falling and it’s _fascinating_. It’s the closest Stan’s ever come to feeling what his brother must feel when he makes a scientific discovery, when he studies something supernatural and other worldly because this is…he can’t look away…

The tendrils move with a lazy grace, undulating as if under the weight of some unseen breeze and then he hears a set of loud clicks. It sounds like knives sliding against one another, sharp and deadly, and goosebumps break out all over his skin, fear and another emotion, one much headier, grasps him by the throat, strangling him.

A growl fills the air and yes, it _is_ a growl. The growl of some great, big, barrel chested beast and there’s a flicker in the darkest depths of the shadows. It’s like someone is striking a match or a lighter repeatedly, but not doing enough to catch a full flame. Bright, bright spots of red. They’re small, but pinpointed and Stan knows immediately it’s Ford’s eyes. But that growl…it doesn’t sound like anything from this Earth.

Too hollow for a human throat, too deep for an animal one. It’s an eerie sound, but one Stan finds he loves and what a weird thing to be attracted to, but he hears it again and licks his lips, waiting, waiting, waiting to see Ford’s face. It’s a long wait. The air is still, stifling, as Stan waits, the tendrils still the only thing in view, the only thing moving for a long time.

Then, finally, Ford slides out from the blackness of the right corner of the cell. He slides into the light and he’s…Stan’s never seen him like this. Well, he _has_ seen him like this, in a way. But it was quick and brief and they were fighting at the time and he didn’t really get a good chance to take a look. To take it all in. Ford looks like himself but also radically different.

His hair is still dark grey, save that lighter line and he’s wearing the same get-up he always wears, but beneath his glasses, beneath his clothes…he’s _different_. His eyeteeth are longer, more pronounced. Not quite vampire fangs, but damned close. His tongue curls around them, almost prehensile like a snake’s as he eyes Stanley and those eyes…bright red eyes with catlike black pupils that seem to dilate as they fully take him in.

His fingers are claws – long, elongated, and as red as his eyes. The skin looks different – glossier – like a reptile’s scales and Stan wonders how far up that change goes, because Ford’s face has his normal flesh tone. Still, those fingers - twisted, curved razors with long sharp points. Not to mention the innumerable shadowy tendrils that curl around him.

Each one escapes from his back, clearly born from there. They’ve proliferated holes throughout his trench coat, fraying it, as they hold him aloft. His feet point towards the ground, but it looks as if he’s floating, hovering, as he edges ever closer to the glass and Stan’s heart is pumping so hard he feels like he’s moments from seizing and wouldn’t that be great? Having a heart attack right here, right now.

But his heart stays solid even as it thunders, Ford drawing ever closer. The smoky tendrils start to rise up alongside the glass, playing along the open air holes. Stan’s sure they could easily reach out, but they don’t. If anything they just keep climbing upwards, as if to show how high they can go, how flexible they are.

And then Ford starts sort of…pacing. Or, no, not pacing, so much as _prowling_. The tendrils slide him along, back and forth and back and forth. They move him about in a smooth, even line that’s inhuman. The resemblance is more feline, more hunter stalking prey and Stan swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing because it’s…he feels entranced. The claws click against one another and Ford’s teeth and tongue are still visible and his nostrils are flaring like a stallion’s after a hard race as the tendrils seem to quiver.

“H-Hey,” Stan chokes out, but Ford doesn’t speak. If anything, he picks up the pace, lurking more swiftly. Even outside the cell, Stan feels cornered. He feels like he’s looking at a wolf that wants to rip his throat out. But also…something else. Something less violent, but no less intense, and Stan croaks, “So, um, how…how ya feelin’?”

His answer is a deep noise that’s not a growl, but not necessarily a human sound either. He thinks it might be a _laugh_. He steps back from the glass a little and the look Ford shoots him is venomous. Right. Okay. So. Stan should leave. He should _definitely_ leave. This isn’t right. He’s…he’s tempting his twin, isn’t he? Or mocking him or something.

Again, it’s like watching a wild animal in captivity. The animal doesn’t _want_ to be captured. It deserves better. It deserves the free, wild world. It deserves to hunt and to feast, to do whatever it damn well pleases. It doesn’t deserve to be locked up in some cage. It doesn’t deserve to be witnessed; gawked at like it’s some sideshow entertainment.

Stan’s checked on Ford and Ford’s fine. He’s not clawing at the walls or himself. He’s just…in there. Pacing. In his monster form. He’s not rubbing himself lewdly or whining pitifully with unrestrained lust or in pain or anything. He’s…fine. Isn’t he?

When people go and see a lion in captivity, they don’t think about climbing into the cage with it. And they _certainly_ don’t think about climbing into the cage to have sex with it. Stan eyes the dial and then Ford and then the dial again. No way that opens easy. Not that Stan _wants_ to open it. He knows better. Letting Ford out…it’s a terrible idea…

That dial will only open when it reaches zero. That dial was made by his genius twin and there’s no way it would be easy to dismantle. It’s a good lock. A firm lock. Ford probably put a lot of work into it. A lot of precautions, just in case. Stan turns. He sees a brick on the ground. He doesn’t know why the brick is there. He doesn’t care. He picks it up and whacks it at the dial with all his strength. The dial smashes easily and falls off.

Smashes because Ford would never think that someone would approach his fancy dial in such a simplistic, caveman-like manner. Why would they? Why did Stan? And as the dial crumples to the floor and the glass door hisses, unsealing, Stan casts the brick off to one side. He watches as his brother disappears – as he fucking _dissipates_ – and black shadows fill the room and what the fuck did he just do? What did he do? What did he do?

“What did I do?” Stan whispers to himself as he backs up and he turns, thinking of escape but that’s long since lost to him. Hell, it was probably lost the moment he left his room upstairs. Left safety to come here, to charge into the wild unknown and his brother’s shadowy tendrils wrap all around him. They pull him backwards into the darkness and the feeling is surreal.

How does one describe being grabbed by smoke? Smoke isn’t solid, but this…there’s a _feeling,_ a tangibility. Like silken ropes and Stan recalls seeing these things cut through whole bodies like butter, that they can change shape, become sharp and knife-like.

But now? Now they don’t have a sharp edge to them what so ever. They wrap around his wrists, his ankles, his legs. They curl along the backs of his knees, stroke his elbows, run along his backside, over his belly, his chest as they draw him up into the air, his slippers falling off his feet as he rises.

“W-wait! Ch-christ, how-how many of these things do you hav-?” Stan gasps but his words are cut off by the sound of ripping cloth. Some of the tendrils have snaked their way beneath his clothing and he knows part of them have shifted, changed to their sharper texture as they start shredding his clothes from his body. They peel every scrap off, like removing the skin from an onion, and soon enough he’s completely bare, naked to the dark air and oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_ …

“F-Ford, I’m not-! I-I don’t-!” Stan doesn’t know how to articulate the one hundred and one thoughts he’s having right now and, what’s worse, his voice is trembling as he tries. He feels like a fucking baby. He’s scared and he doesn’t even know what he’s scared of and then something wraps around his throat.

At first it appears to be a bigger, thicker billow of smoke, but then it takes form, becoming more substantial, and he recognizes it as an arm. Ford materializes right behind him and he has Stan in a chokehold. Stan’s eyes widen, horror filling him, because his brother’s grip tightens and he’s starting more than ever to realize what a mistake he’s made.

Stan struggles violently, but it’s no use. He’s like a worm writhing on a hook, his fight completely in vain. His brother’s grip is so tight. He’s holding him in a steel-like vice, tendrils restraining his movements; the length of his arm squeezing his neck tighter and tighter and Stan can’t break out, he can’t break out and he can’t breathe, he _can’t_ …

Greyish white clouds his vision and just as stars begin to appear, just as it grows almost too dark to see, the hold loosens completely. Stan sucks in a heavy breath, eager for air, but he doesn’t get long to appreciate it. The tendrils spooling around him only slacken slightly and Ford’s clawed hands begin to run along his back, dancing up and down his spine and Ford’s…sniffing him?

Yup. His brother is definitely _smelling_ him.

Stan can feel his brother’s nose combing through his hair as it knocks his fez off. He can hear him sucking in big lungful’s of his scent. Damp lips press close to his scalp and those _claws_. They keep teasing so lightly, sharp tips hinting at the damage they could cause, how they could rip him into bloody chunks, but they don’t.

No, they don’t sinking into his flesh, they don’t cut; they just…keep trailing up and down and up and down. Outlining the shape of his shoulder blades, feeling out the bones beneath his skin and Stan can’t help the groan that leaves him, the shudder of pleasure.

The sensations are so _odd_. His twin’s huffing and puffing against his hair like he’s snorting cocaine and his knife hands are probably pulling up fine red marks along his back and it’s…all so stimulating.  Stan’s nipples are hard, he can feel the tips _aching_ and his dick is stiffening, but nowhere close to fully erect. He’s found that sometimes, what with his advance age and all, it takes a while to get it up and ready to go. But he can just make it out and oh yes, that’s right, he’s completely _nude_.

He’s buck naked and Ford is fully clothed. Totally unfair. And his twin brother (this _creature_ ) holds him aloft and is just…playing with him. Stan can’t see his face, but he can hear Ford’s hefty panting, can feel those claws and the tendrils…

“A _hhhnnnhuh_!”

Stan hears himself, hears this pitiful, hungry sound leave him and blushes because, goddamn, _that’s_ embarrassing. If his hands were free, he’d cover his mouth; pretend the sound never left him. He doesn’t think he’s made a sound like that since he was a teen (if he’s ever made it), but what the fuck is he supposed to do when he’s being touched like this?

It’s like dozens of silky hands are reaching out and caressing him at all at once and all over and with different rates of pressure and oh Jesus, _fuck_ …..

Some of them have taken to lightly brushing his nipples while others start playing along his sides, but they never touch where he _needs_ to be touched. They don’t help his slowly burgeoning cock at all, apparently happy to ignore it, much like Ford’s ignoring Stan’s mouth.

Because Ford has moved from smelling to _tasting_. But not through kissing, never mind the fact that Stan is more than up for that. No, instead he licks big, broad strokes along the left side of Stan’s neck, then the right. Stan shivers at the feel, wants to make a crack about how he’s not an ice cream cone, but hell, maybe he _is_. Ford’s sure acting like he is. Licking and lightly sucking and Stan groans at the sweet, tender pull - at the feel of those sharp teeth against his old, papery flesh.

But they don’t cut, they don’t bite. Instead, Ford’s tongue changes tactics; just the silky tip running from one shoulder to the other and then back again. And this is in conjunction with the tendrils that haven’t stop moving, haven’t stop exploring, and Stan’s all for foreplay, but this is getting out of hand.

“F-Ford?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

“H-hey, Ford?”

Nothing.

“ _Ford_ ,” the tone is sterner and he gets an aggravated huff for his trouble. Okay, so, at least his brother _is_ paying attention, “Listen, this is…something, but it ain’t…I mean, we’re, ah, _hovering_. Can’t-can’t do much like this…right?”

Ford doesn’t answer with words. Instead he just turns Stan with easy grace, tugging him deeper into the cell. Stan’s eyes adjust to the dark and he can just make out a sleeping cot, “Um, okay. But that’s…pretty small. Don’t think it’ll fit the two of u- _oh_!”

The last word comes out choked as Ford’s tendrils move Stan down on to the bed, kneeling him down and then Ford’s mouth latches on to Stan’s right shoulder. Latching on being the best word, as Ford’s sharp teeth literally sink in. Stan cries out, startled, pain shooting from the bite only for it to lessen, for the pain to morph into…something else. Something…tingly.

Stan gasps, arches back, because he can’t _not_. Ford’s teeth are embedded deep into his skin, he can feel blood seeping from the wound, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. The tingling is expanding all over, growing into a warm, sparking sensation that’s spiraling out of control. That’s making the tiny hairs on his body stand on end, making his limbs, his dick, come to startling life.

 _Did he just_ -? _Am I being poisoned_? Stan thinks, because poison seems like the only way to describe it. Or maybe drugged would be better. Yes, drugged, but it’s not harmful. No, Stan doesn’t feel harmed. He feels…everything in his body is rushing, rising. His vision swirls and everything around him seems to _glow_. The everyday dull pains and aches he usually feels in his elderly body dissolve away and he feels…younger. Lighter.

His muscles relax, become supine, but then Ford bites him again. This bite is on his left shoulder and Ford makes a snarling noise, like he’s a dog with a fucking chew toy, and Stan would be annoyed about it (or maybe amused, maybe both.), but then there’s another shot of…whatever his brother seems to be dousing him with and oh…. _ohhhhhhhhhh_ …

Another choked noise leaves him, a sort of sobbing swallow, because his blood feels like it’s _boiling_. His earlier, flaccid cock is now throbbing, growing firmer and fuller by the second and, as if waiting for this cue, the tendrils zero in on it. Four or five wrap around his length, while two take to cradling his sack. They squeeze and stroke and Ford’s name leaves Stan’s lips in a strained groan.

Ford’s teeth release their hold and he starts nuzzling the back of Stan’s left ear, tongue circling his big, flat earlobe, flicking against it while he rocks restlessly against Stan’s backside. Even with all his clothes on, Stan can feel Ford’s massive erection. And massive is the definitely the right word. Not that Ford’s ever been small but he feels, um, _bigger_. Certainly more noticeable, not that Stan has much sense of anything, as blissed out as he’s getting from the bites and the steady attention to his privates.

Ford trails his tongue smoothly down Stan’s spine and then he’s pushing Stan down more, one clawed hand forcing his head down, urging it into the small, lumpy pillow on the cot. At first, Stan has no earthly idea why, but then he realizes his ass is more upright, raised. Raised high enough that Ford’s claws trail over the plush cheeks, wholly gentle as they change shape, reverting to their more human consistency. Warm palms pull his cheeks apart and Stan’s face feels like it’s on fire.

He’s totally exposed, vulnerable and open to his brother’s view and this isn’t something he’s ever really had to deal with before. After all, it’s not like any of his johns or previous lovers wanted to inspect his asshole up close and personal. And they certainly never-

“ _Aaah_!” Stan’s cry nearly wrenches his throat open; it’s so sharp and high in pitch. Higher than he should be capable of but oh, _oh god_ , Ford’s _tongue_. Ford’s tongue is teasing up and down the very sensitive, very soft skin between his ass cheeks and then the tip, _dear god_ ; the very tip breaches his _hole_. And that tip, it’s like a snake’s again. Prehensile and quick and far too long, too clever as it moves up inside him.

Stan understands better now why Ford pushed his face down into the pillow and the tendrils around him slacken enough for him to grab it, to shove the pillow into his mouth to try and quiet some of the noises. _His_ noises. He can’t help them, can’t help how humiliating they are, but the _pleasure_. Fuck, the pleasure is _intense_. Damn near unbearable. Ford’s tongue is fucking him so thoroughly.

It stretches and twists and bends up inside him. It curls and teases and is centuries from being human anymore. Stan is shivering, moaning, trembling in his brother’s tight embrace. Stanley Pines has done many, many things in his life. He’s done far more than the average person. But this? This has never happened to him. Not ever. No one’s ever offered; no one’s ever been interested. But now here it is – his brother  – eating him out. Ford, licking and kissing and sucking, tongue fucking him like a pro and Stan wants to push back on that tongue, wants to get more.

His whole body quails under this attention and he feels a wild blend of emotions. Embarrassment, amusement, wonder, desire. They all roll around inside him, a massive ball of contradictions he can’t control and then every thought, every emotion is obliterated as the coils around his cock and sack start moving in earnest, start their own rhythm while Ford rims him.

Ford lets out a rumble; a sound like he’s enjoying this and it’s too much. Stan might have been slow to rise, but he’s quick to lose control, damn near screaming as he comes apart at the seams. His release splatters all over the bunk, soaking it, but even as he cums, Ford won’t stop. His tendrils keep stroking his pulsing dick, his taunt balls - his tongue keeps _fucking_ him and Stan feels like he’s _dying_.

Earlier his mind made an off handed joke about what’s the worst that could happen – it wasn’t like Ford could fuck him to death. But now it’s less funny. It feels startlingly possible, his body a hot wire, heart beating to the breaking point. Thankfully he feels the tremors of his orgasm slow, but Ford…

Ford’s not done.

Instead the lunatic pulls back from Stan’s entrance and starts biting at his ass cheeks, his thighs. Stan moans weakly, still just a pile of loose limbed jelly as Ford turns him over and keeps devouring him. Bite after bite on his thick, hairy inner thighs, sharp teeth injecting more and more of that shit into his system. That stuff that’s like Viagra turned up to a thousand and Stan can feel his body singing with it, can feel his dick growing full and rising again and that’s not possible, this isn’t possible, this isn’t…

Ford rises back on his haunches, a group of tendrils supporting him, lifting him up while others wrap fully around Stan, picking up his whole body. They raise him up and Stan whimpers weakly as he’s lifted from the cot, as he’s pushed back against the stone wall nearby. Ford’s feral red and black eyes look all over Stan’s face as his claw reform, as they descended to his pants and with a few quick flicks, shred the material, parting away all the cloth to expose him.

And, oh, do they expose him.

ALL of him.

That is to say, earlier Stan had felt Ford’s erection and had thought it larger than he remembered. He now discovers that there is a very good reason for that. Logically, it makes sense that Ford would be different in other places. The claws, the eyes, the tendrils – he’s clearly very different from his normal, human self. But see, here’s the thing – Stan had never thought his modifications, his alterations, would extend to his dick. I mean, why would they?

Ford said he didn’t have sex with anyone else, so why would he-?

But the question isn’t even worth asking. The cold, hard fact is – Ford’s cock is now very different from the one Stan’s come to know and love. This one is _massive_. It’s the monster Stan’s sworn up and down that Ford is not. It’s extremely thick - thicker than anything Stan feels comfortable fitting inside his body. It’s as bright red as Ford’s eyes and claws, with thick black veins visibly coursing along it. The texture too, looks different. Much like the claws, it appears scaly. Dragon-like.  Is that what Sixer grafted on to himself? Some kind of dragon DNA?

Or maybe it’s a werewolf or something, considering how bestial he’s been. Hell, maybe it’s a mix or some new, fantastical creature never thought of or dreamed of in this dimension. Maybe more than one. Regardless, Stan’s eyes widen alarmingly at the sight and he looks up at Ford. Ford, who is fucking _smirking_ like he knows how damned impressive he is. Stan visibly gulps and shakes his head, voice hoarse from his earlier shouts of ecstasy, “That’s…yeah. Not…not sure I can…can take – take all of that…”

A grimace forms on Stan’s face after the words because, dammit, he didn’t mean to be that brutally honest. It makes him sound like a wimp. Not to mention it’ll just inflate Ford’s already huge ego. But then, apparently his ego isn’t the only thing that’s huge anymore. A smoky fog rises up around them and Stan belatedly realizes it’s more of Ford’s tendrils. Most of them are insubstantial again, passing along his body like smog but some, some grow solid and as they slither over him he notices they’re damp now.

How they got wet, he’s not sure, but he finds the cool slickness not only startling but alarming, because one of them, a very dense one, is starting to slide its way up between his thighs. It caresses and curls over his skin, moving with a lazy grace up and up until it’s teasing at his very entrance. It’s much like Ford’s tongue was earlier but it’s…growing.

Growing in density, becoming harder and fatter and-

“Oh _fuuu_ -!” Stan can’t even get the whole curse out as the tendril pushes up inside him. It thrusts with an artlessness that should be disconcerting, perhaps even painful. But it’s not. God, it’s very much not at all. Instead it’s nothing but perfect. It moves in and out of the hot channel of his body, wide and wet and wonderful and then, then it’s joined by _another_.

Stan’s eyes widen as he moans with abandon and okay, he’d never tell Sixer this, but he’s been double penetrated before. Two guys paid for that privilege and Stan let them, because the money was good and why not? A whore is a whore is a whore. He wasn’t going to argue with them, wasn’t going to have a whole debate about what he would and would not do. Pretty much anything was up for grabs. As long as the money was good, he was willing.

But this…he’s being double penetrated by _Ford_. By Ford’s fucking _tendrils_ for Jesus fuck’s _sake_! Tendrils that are more smoke than substance yet wickedly solid as they fuck him and it’s so _weird_. So _good_. So much so that he can’t help but groan, can't help but push his hips downwards, riding both, welcoming both inside him, loving the feel of it, wanting more. And he gets more. He gets _another_ tendril.

This is new.

Double penetration, yes. But triple? Ford seems eager to introduce Stan to new things tonight. First the rim job and now this. And more. More because a _fourth_ worms its way in. And not one tendril wants to be outdone by the other. They move independent of one another, surging and fucking and Stan can hear his sounds echo off the walls. His woefully desperate, eager sounds. Because he _wants_ this.

He’s got _four_ tendrils in him, he’s being screwed every which way and he wants it, wants it _all_ and then some new tendrils wrap themselves around his dick again, his balls again, and he can only imagine what kind of picture he must make right now. He probably looks beyond slutty, all these tendrils palpating up inside him and around him.

Having four in him now, Stan does feel a little discomfort, but it’s a discomfort he likes. No, hell, he _loves_ it. Stan loves the girth of each, the feel of each. Loves how well they’re using him and all the while, he can feel Ford’s eyes on him, can see Ford watching him. Ford looks rapt with attention, but he hasn’t said a word, hasn’t done a thing to pleasure himself, barely made a sound and Stan struggles against the bonds holding him, the bonds that are just more of Ford and Christ, his brother is just fucking _everywhere_ isn’t he?

He’s outside of Stan, he’s inside of Stan, he’s all around him – holding him up, holding him down, screwing him beyond repair and his whole body is quivering, working restlessly, keenly, against the tendrils, _with_ the tendrils. But his wrists, he needs them free, so he works until he has that. Works until he’s free enough to grab Ford’s inscrutable face between his hands, so he can draw him close enough to pant against his lips, “Ford, _Ford_ , honey, _sweetheart_ ….fuck, fuck, _please_ …”

And Stan’s not even sure what he’s asking for, but Ford seems to understand. His eyes flash, the black irises glittering, and then he’s gripping Stan’s thighs tight with his hands, parting them, wrapping them around his hips as he pushes his whole monstrous length inside him.

“ _FUCK_! YEAH! YES, _YES_!” Stan cries out, head knocking roughly back against the cell’s stone walls because Ford’s cock is buried deep in him, but so are the tendrils. It’s… _all_ of it’s in him. Stretching his entrance to capacity and he’s never been so full, so overwhelmed. But this moment, this second, where he’s being penetrated by all these multiple entities, by Ford, _all_ of Ford– Stan finds he feels a rush of calm. Of love. He feels…it’s so funny. He feels _loved_.

But that second, it passes in a rush. It’s a bump in the road, it’s the eye of the storm, gone and lost and overcome by the savage and thunderous fall, the eruption of Ford’s passions. Because, apparently, Ford’s been holding _back_.

But no longer.

Everything that has come before was just a warm up. Now? Now the grand prize fight is on and each of the tendrils grows focused, grows fervent. The ones in Stan’s body seem to almost vibrate, to come to life and as for Ford himself – it’s like someone’s pulled a ripcord.

It’s like he’s a race horse that’s been whipped into a frenzy, one unleashed on Stan’s body as he starts pounding into him without mercy. He thrusts in and out and in and out, driving his length in deeper, driving it in harder. Ford’s arms are tight bands around Stan’s body, urging him to answer, to be just as feverish in his response and Stan’s so on board. He whines, the sound wretched with desire, as he does as Ford wants, but there’s also another sound, one not of his making.

This sound is of something large and heavy being broken and on either side of Stan’s head some of the tendrils start tearing at the wall because, oh, that’s right – they can get sharp, can’t they? Sharp enough to bury themselves into _stone_ , to break it apart, rip it asunder and they seem to do so blindly, as if needing the extra release of destruction.

Yet the ones moving so steadily within Stan, the ones sliding along his inner most walls; are sweet and edgeless and Ford’s monster dick seems part of that lot, even as it moves with vigor and Stan’s fingers clutch to the back of Ford’s neck, dig into his sweaty nape as he sobs, “God, _god fuck_ , f-fuck c-can’t-oh god, _can’t_! Can’t t-take anymore, please… _uh huh, uh, uh, uh!_ …”

And everything after that is distressed panting because Ford is surging up into him again and again and Stan’s back is damn near being rubbed raw against the stone and he’s hanging on for dear life, because Ford probably really IS going to fuck him to death. He’s had sex before, but never like this and he doesn’t know if it’s all the passion, the adrenaline, if it’s the venom Ford filled him with – he doesn’t know what it is – but Stan comes _again_.

He already came once. But he comes again, hot cum escaping him, soaking his belly and Ford’s goddamn sweater because Ford’s still got most of his goddamn clothes on, big trench coat surrounding them like a billowing tan cloud as he keeps moving, never stopping and has he even cum yet? Has he?

Stan wants him to cum, but he also feels like he’s going to die, he’s so strung out and this is actually a _super_ great way to pass on. He’s never felt so good in his entire fucking life, so if this is how he dies, he can handle it. He can handle his tombstone reading ‘Here lies Stanley Pines; he died from some earth shattering monster sex.’

Ford is grunting and growling and Stan feels a hot, moist heat flood him and he _knows_ Ford’s finally orgasmed. He knows it, but apparently Ford’s not finished, because he merely tosses Stan back on to the tiny cot again. Ford turns Stan over, raises his ass high once more as he keeps at it, now vigorously fucking him from behind.

Stan’s sure Ford pulled out at some point; he had to have, in order to make this new position possible. And yet it feels like this has never stopped. Not once. He feels like they’ve been having sex for _hours_.  Maybe they have, maybe Stan passed out at some point. Passed out and Ford, dumb animal he is right now, just kept at it. Ford had made some blithe remark about how his mind set would be to impregnate someone and Stan can now attest that that does seem to be the case.

And while his throat is raw from all the sounds Ford’s wrenched from him, Stan manages to grumble in a threadbare groan, “You know I can’t…can’t _actually_ get knocked up…right?”

The slurred question doesn’t seem to matter to Ford. It certainly doesn’t stop him and he continues to piston himself into Stan, over and over, curly pubic hair and torn pants crushing flush up against Stan’s ass. Stan just huffs, returning his face to the abused pillow from earlier. He thinks about how he truly understand now that look female animals get when they’re being mounted – a sort of, ‘whelp, here we go again, might as well enjoy the ride’ look when suddenly Ford grasps at Stan’s hair, tugging his head back.

Stan winces slightly at the action and he can feel the claws clip at him a bit but then, to his total astonishment, Ford _finally_ speaks, “ _Mine_.”

Stan stops, swallows, heart full even as Ford tightens his grip, even as his thrusts slow, become more languid, more torturous, as he curls ever closer, hollow alien voice somehow still carrying a crushed gravelly growl to it, “ _Mine_.”

“Ford…”

“ _Mine_ ,” Ford seems to be damn near _pleading_ it now, his neediness naked and bared and Stan nods, offering whole heartedly, “Yours.”

“Stanley…”

“Yes, Ford,” Stan manages, voice stronger now, firmer now, because this is the first time since all this began that Ford seems vulnerable, seems human, “I’m yours. Yours…”

Ford lets out a choked cry and Stan curses a blue streak as he feels his brother’s cock _swell_ inside of him. He honestly worries he might be ripped in half by what he’s feeling when suddenly Ford comes and oh god, Jesus Christ, _yes_ …

This is nothing like the first time he came. This time when Ford comes…Stan whole body takes flight, toes curling, ass pushing back into the feeling, into the sensation because while _both_ of them have come before now this time, this time…

It’s transcendent. Stan damn near mewls. He feels so wet, so dirty, so spent. But he feels cherished too, special. Ford collapses over his back, puffing and panting, breathing in Stan’s hair again and his hands, no longer claws, gently brush all over him. As do his tendrils, they wrap possessively around Stan, cool and comforting. Ford nuzzles at Stan, his strange tone tender, “Mine.”

“Yes, I’m yours,” Stan promises in a threadbare rasp, “Always have been, always will be.”

 

+

 

Ford wakes up feeling heavily refreshed.

This is not how he normally wakes up after one of his cycles. Normally he comes to feeling restless; annoyed. This morning? This morning he feels better than he has in _ages_. He feels _satisfied_. Which immediately thrusts him from feeling great to _furious_.

Because, while it might take a moment or two for the memories of last night to come back, the sight of a naked, loudly snoring, damn-near-mutilated Stanley on the cell floor is instant. Ford does his best to wrench his torn pants back together as he rises from the destroyed cot beneath him, anger fueling him as he snaps, “Stanley!”

Stan just grunts, snores, turns over and the sight of him…

Ford closes his eyes tight, jaw tight as he tries again, “ _Stanley_!”

“MMmmmm – no. M’not yet…c’mon…been ‘bout…billion times already…jus’…give a guy a break, Sixer…do it ‘gain in a bit…” the words come out slurred, exhausted.

Ford’s face scrunches up and he kicks out at Stan. Hard.

“ _Yeeouch_! What was that fer-?” Stan bellows as he shoots up right, glasses hanging weirdly on his face. He adjusts them and his eyes widen at the sight of his fuming twin. He ruffles his already disheveled hair as he offers a weak, “ _Oh_.”

“Oh?” Ford snarls, “That’s all you can say for yourself?! ‘Oh’?!”

Stan yawns, stretching and winching. He tries to get to his feet and fails spectacularly. Not that _that’s_ a surprise. His legs are noodles and his ass…

…it’s best not to describe it.

Instead he slouches back on the floor, expression sheepish, “Um…good morning?”

“Try again, Stanley!” Ford shouts and Stan sighs, rolling his eyes, “Uh, yeeeeeeah. How…how much do you remember?”

“Remember?! I remember ALL of it, you ignorant son of-!” Ford just waves his hands around, cutting himself off as he walks around in a tight, stormy circle, “What did you DO, Stanley?”

“Nothing I didn’t want to,” Stan assures him with mild amusement as he leans back on his arms, “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

“THE BIG DEAL?!” Ford explodes and Stan groans, trying to get up again as Ford turns to waving at him directly, “THIS! _This_ is the problem, you unmitigated jackass! You can’t even STAND UP! And just – just LOOK at yourself!”

The last comes out in a wretched cry of anguish and Ford turns away, turns as if he can’t even bear to look at Stan anymore. He presses his hands to the cool walls of the cell. Stan blinks, confused, and then he looks down.

Well.

He IS quite a sight.

Stan is covered from head to toe with dark bruises. Thumb shaped ones. _Tendril_ shapes ones. Not to mention the dark red spots of dried blood. Thin slashes from the claws, little circular crescents where Ford’s teeth broke skin. Stan takes survey of it all and then just shrugs, “So I gotta make sure I don’t wear nothin’ too revealing. That’s no big. Ain’t like I’ve ever been caught running around in nothing but a thong anyway.”

Ford lets out a bitter chuckle and Stan sees him smacking his forehead lightly against the wall. Stan tries a third time and it does, indeed, prove to be the charm. It’s…difficult to move, but he can do it. He can stand and move and he hobbles over to his brother, touching his shoulder lightly, “Hey, c’mon, I’ve had worse then-!”

Ford smacks his hand away and turns to him, eyes watery as he jabs one finger in his face, “ _Don’t_.”

“Aw, Christ, come _on_ , Stanford! We just had some rough sex. People do it all the time!”

“People-?” Ford starts to repeat and then lets out a huff, face dark, “I wasn’t a ‘person’ then, Stanley! For god’s sake, don’t you understand? I-I _violated_ you! I raped-”

“ _No_ ,” Stan cuts in firmly, “Don’t you say that. You don’t ever get to say that to me. I told you – I didn’t do nothing I didn’t want to. You did NOT, I repeat, did not take advantage of me! I was willing and raring to go. _I_ made the decision to come down here. _I_ made the decision to let you fuck me and boy, did you ever…” He can’t even finish, his growing grin cutting the words off, “I mean, if I _could_ get pregnant, I’d probably be havin’ your litter with way you was going at it.”

Ford started shaking his head when Stan interrupted him and he hasn’t stopped now as he closes his eyes, moaning weakly, “No, no, _no_! You don’t get it, Stanley. I…I couldn’t have stopped. Even if you _had_ wanted me to stop, I couldn’t have…no, I-I _wouldn’t_ have. I would’ve, I…”

“But you _didn’t_ ,” Stan assures him, stopping Ford’s head shaking by taking his face in his hands, trying to get him to look him in the eyes, “And I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. When you’re like that, you’re…you’re still _you_. I know that now. I looked in your eyes, your face and yeah, yeah, they were different, but not as different as you’d think. Underneath it all, you’re still the same.”

Ford lets out a broken, wet sound, “Then…then what does that say about me? That I’m a monster?”

Stan groans and lets Ford’s face go, angry himself now, “You’re _not_ a monster, Sixer! You’re the man I love! No matter what form or shape you take! You could have grafted six legs and twenty eyes on yourself and I’d _still_ love you, still never think of you as a monster. A jerk? Yes. An egotistical bastard? Sure. But _never_ a monster.”

“Just…tell me why,” Ford asks softly, eyes downcast, “Why did you even-?”

“I wanted to, alright?” Stan mutters, “I wanted to see you, wanted to be with you.”

“You _are_ with me. You could have seen me tomorrow! You could have-!”

“I wanted to be with you when you were like that. When you were uninhibited, when you…when you’d be…” Stan stops himself, knowing if he continues he’ll get himself in too deep, but Ford just keeps pushing, “I’d be what?”

“Passionate,” Stan finds himself speaking, unable to keep his stupid mouth from running away from him, “Hungry. I wanted you to…to show me how much you want me.”

“I see,” Ford’s tone is cold and Stan swallows thickly, recognizing immediately how fucked up what he said just sounded. More so when Ford clips curtly, “I was unaware I was so…displeasing. So pedestrian.”

“It ain’t that,” Stan tosses out quickly, wanting to undo the damage he just caused, “It’s just you…you’re never,” he makes aborted sounds of frustration, trying to think of the best way to put it, “You could be a little less gentle with me. I’m not glass, y’know?”

“Clearly,” Ford looks at him, dark eyes blazing as they trail over the marks on him, “You obviously don’t break easy.”

“No,” Stan grumbles, his chin jutting out, “I don’t. And these marks you gave me? I like ‘em, just like I like you. And I know, I _know_ you take it all personal about what I used ta do for a living. That it makes you think if I’m under you, that I’m thinking about that, but I’m not. When I’m with you, when you’re in me, I’m thinking of _you_. Not the past. But you…you think of the past. _My_ past. A past that didn’t even have nothing to do with you!”

“Oh, I _know_ it had nothing to do with me,” Ford hisses, “If it had, I would have _never_ let you-!”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe,” Stan waves him off, “But what’s it matter? The past is just that. The past. It’s behind me and I don’t want you handling me with kid gloves! I want you to show me how much you want me.”

“I was unaware I was doing such a bad job of it,” he returns sulkily and Stan rolls his eyes, “Oh, stop tryin’ ta do that! You’re too smart to not know exactly what I mean!”

The two of them stand there, silent for a while, absorbing everything that was said and happened. Ford walks around, taking stock of the cell. He looks at the broken cot, then at the torn wall – he points to it, forehead wrinkled with unspoken questions and Stan answers, “Some people grip sheets…you rip apart walls…”

Ford breathes in through his nose deeply and moves on. He finds the destroyed dial and he nudges it with the tip of one of his boots. He then spies a brick in the corner and snorts to himself, shaking his head. Stan sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, “Look…you really wanna look at it right – _I’m_ the one that took advantage of you.”

Ford’s head snaps up at this, eyes meeting Stan’s who just shrugs, “I knew what kinda state you’d be in and I used it for my own gain. You want to get right down to it; I’m the real monster here.”

“No,” Ford says softly and he marches over to Stan, “You’re not.”

Stan’s face is one of open surprise as Ford tugs him close, kisses him hard. His tongue slips deep into Stan’s mouth, feverish and warm and Stan whimpers, startled and charmed, because out of all the things that happened last night, this never did. Ford didn’t kiss him. But now?

Now he kisses him with heat, with desire, and when he pulls away, Stan’s sort of struck dumb. Ford presses his forehead to Stan and smiles, “It would seem we have yet another issue on top of all our issues.”

“Hmm, it’s in good company,” Stan mutters and Ford laughs, kissing him again before he whispers against his lips, “You know…if you wanted me to be more, ah, vigorous. All you needed to do was ask.”

 “Yeah? How’s about you ask me for something. See how easy it is.”

“Point taken.”

“Man, our issues got issues…”

“True,” Ford hums and he kisses him again, “But at least we have each other.”

“Brother, you ain’t wrong,” Stan assures him and they kiss again for quite some time. When they finally break apart, Stan is trembling, his whole body still wrung out from the previous evening. Ford clasps his hand and squeezes it, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll take care of you.”

“Take care of me by feeding me a four course meal. I’m friggin’ _starving_.”

Ford laughs and offers an ‘I’ll bet’ before they start walking towards the elevator. Right as they reach the door, Stan clears his throat, “Hey, Ford?”

“Yes?”

“Just…outta curiosity…when, ah, when do you think the veils between dimensions will be thin again?”

He gets a hefty, amused sigh as an answer.


End file.
